Harry Potter and the Commanders Fall
by BeforePeaceThereIsAStorm
Summary: Michael doesn't know what to believe anymore- the Father he had once gazed upon with nothing but reverence and blind devotion has gone, leaving behind a shattered set of beliefs and an empty family. Gabriel has run, Raphael is disjointed and cut off from his emotions, and Lucifer... is locked in a cage, like an animal. Now, he has a choice; kill Lucifer, or run away to earth.
1. Chapter 1

**13 YEARS AFTER THE REBELLION; HEAVEN**

* * *

**M**ichael eyed Earth through a wispy gap in the floor with faint curiosity, eyes narrow. No, he couldn't- _wouldn't_ dare even attempt such travesty. His duty was to Heaven, and an absent Father he had an inkling would not care much for his choice - let alone condone such a thing. He turned away, busying himself instead with the large stack of paper settled on his desk, trying to ignore the niggling thought in the back of his mind; _jump, jump and be free._

Far above, a hidden entity sighed and retreated, deigning to wait another few millennia.

* * *

**4530 YEARS AFTER THE REBELLION; HEAVEN**

* * *

**F**eet dangling off of the edge sat Michael. Eyes closed and thoughts racing. He'd been patient all these years, watching his life play out like a film, barely conscious in his own world. It was only now, heart racing at the thought of _falling, freedom, repentance _that he felt truly alive, like he existed. He was grounded, safe. Everything had went to hell, his closest brother was locked away, and Michael could still hear his screams reverberating in his mind. His Father and Gabriel gone, having left years ago for a better life, Raphael was cold, reserved and barely spoke to anyone. Everyone else? Those little fledglings he'd raised? Dead inside, little more than soldiers, their laughter having faded centuries ago. And Michael? Michael was nothing, not anymore. He was a shell, barely even present.

"Brother, may I enter?" A familiar voice echoed through the closed door, snapping Michael from his reverie. He withdrew, smoothing his shirt absently and opening the door to reveal Raphael.

Once more, Michael chose Heaven over himself.

* * *

**7590 YEARS AFTER THE REBELLION; HEAVEN**

* * *

**T**he third time was rushed and panic-filled, he stood over the gap in a moment of desperation, prepared to jump. Things were going so wrong so fast, everything had changed in the blink of an eye, and he had no time at all to fix it. He'd just learned about his Father's expectations in full, he finally understood the full extent- he was to kill his own brother. Was this some sort of sick joke? Could it really be true? The Father he looked up to so much had left instructions on how he was to slaughter his own kin, the brother he'd raised from birth - the brother he thought more of as a son. He was hyperventilating, despite not even requiring breath, his mind blurred together until he could hardly even think. He needed to get it together before he acted hastily and did something he regretted.

Michael forced himself to breathe, and focussed on the consequences of what he was going to do.

Pro's: he'd be free, he wouldn't need to kill Lucifer, he could just live peacefully and he wouldn't have an entire army of his siblings acting on his orders like mindless robots. Cons: he'd lose his grace, he'd be human, he'd Fall, Raphael might find him and drag him home, he could disappoint his Father. Michael frowned, did he really care that much about any of the cons? Losing his grace and becoming human - it didn't really seem all that bad… unfortunately, being an Archangel, he'd never truly forget who he was, but that could work in his favour. He mentally crossed them off the list, leaving only his Fall, Raphael finding him and disappointing his Father. Falling would mean his interdiction from Heaven, he'd never be allowed back unless he repented for the sin of knowingly and willingly removing his grace. It could prove problematic, but if he left he never planned on returning in the first place, and thus another con was crossed off his list. He figured he'd save the most problematic for last, and moved on to disappointing his Father - did he honestly care anymore? No. The answer was no. He couldn't bring himself to care anymore if the same Father forcing him to kill his brother was disappointed in him- Michael was done. Finally, there came the most problematic, Raphael. If he left now there was nowhere to hide, he'd be caught and dragged home with no remorse, which could not happen. He would not be allowed to run a second time, he only had one chance, and he could not be hasty.

So, Michael would wait, and when there was no way he'd be found, he would slip away unnoticed while the others prepared for the apocalypse, and he'd be gone for good.

* * *

**FOUR HOURS BEFORE THE COMMANDERS FALL; HEAVEN**

* * *

**M**ichael released a fluttery breath as he stood over the familiar gap in his office, eyes shut in a futile attempt to slow his racing heart. It was finally time, he was going to leave, to hide away on Earth to wait out the apocalypse - or to stop it. One could not have a battle if the other half refused to participate.

It would be hours before his betrayal was discovered, Raphael was trapped in a meeting, and none else dared to even approach his office without a direct appointment scheduled. The apocalypse was set to begin in only a few years with his vessel already born and Lucifer's on the way, it was time.

Michael spread his arms like wings in an almost comical fashion, and took a step, sending him plunging through the clouds, hurtling for Earth at the speed of light. It was then that everything went black.

* * *

**OCTOBER 31, 1981; THE BEGINNING**

* * *

**H**arry James Potter was a quiet child, crying was a rare occurrence in their simple home located deep within a small community known as Godric's Hollow, a relief to his young parents, barely out of school themselves. However, this Halloween somethings was off, and anyone could tell such. His parents shuffled uncomfortably downstairs, sharing a meaningful glance as he began again, cries sounding desperate, fearful.

James reached over to squeeze his wife's hand reassuringly, flashing a brief smile, "don't worry, I've got him," but even she could see his uneasiness as he stood and made his way up the stairs and into a familiar, brightly painted nursery. The sight of his father had Harry's cries ceasing, and he quieted nearly instantly, watching with bright, emerald green eyes.

"Hey buddy," he leaned over the edge of the crib, gaze softening at the sight of his own face staring up at him, baring a familiar pair of eyes he knew belonged only to his wife, Lily. He reached in to pick up the stuffed dog beside him, a familiar black grim - the animagus form of his godfather Padfoot, otherwise known as Sirius Black. He grinned and used the toy to tickle at his son, making a few odd noises to hear him giggle and laugh. Harry squealed and grabbed careful hold of the toy, before stuffing the muzzle straight in his mouth.

"Pa'foo!" Harry cooed around the thing in his mouth. He'd always been quite an intelligent child, having picked up words quite early, and he could now even speak in sentences, though they were a bit jumbled. James grinned and tickled his cheek before straightening up and turning to Lily, who'd entered the doorway only a moment earlier. She too was smiling, apprehension having faded at the sight of her husband with her child.

He stepped up to kiss her briefly, smiling, before he gestured back down the stairs. "Come on, I think he'll be alright, he was just a bit lonely."

"Then shouldn't we stay?" She asked with a grin, though her eyes sparkled with a faint hint of nerves.

"It's fine, Lil, we can turn on some music downstairs and relax, he'll be fine with the stuffed Padfoot - you know how much he loves that thing.

Behind them a happy voice gurgled at the name, "Pa'foo! Pa'foo!"

"Okay," she smiled softly, and turned to head back into the living room, James following after her quietly.

It was then that everything went to hell, that the night's uneasiness came to a conclusion, that it became clear why everything was so off, so wrong. Down below, an explosion rattled the entire house, and the world flew into chaos. Harry began to scream and cry, his wails punctuated starkly by the waft of smoke drifting through the halls, the world alit with colour. "Go!" James cried, pushing his wife back towards the nursery, "go, protect Harry! I''l hold him off!" He took of down the stairs with incredible speed, wand out.

Lily burst into the nursery and turned back to bar the door, trying to push aside the fear growing in her chest. She lifted Harry into her arms for what could be the final time, and whispered her goodbye, even as the door behind them exploded. She set him down and turned to block his way.

"Please… Please not Harry! Take me, don't hurt my Harry!"

"Quiet girl! Step aside!"

"No! Not Harry, please!"

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

A scream cut short, leaving nothing but the child with eyes like emerald fire, filled with rage, and his parents murder with a sick, twisted grin. Around them, the world began to shake.

What Voldemort didn't know that night, was that he had not just killed the loving family of an infant, but rather, a disguised Archangel, the former commander of Heaven. And he didn't not appreciate the only kind people he'd known in ages being killed.

The serpentine man's grin fell as the world turned to light, and Lord Voldemort was no more, leaving nothing behind but the bodies of a man and woman, and a single, spanning scar of lightning etched across the child's face, red and fiery as it spread outwards from the centre of his forehead in thin, spidery lines.

* * *

**AUGUST 15, 1985; AN OBSESSIONS COLD START**

* * *

**M**ichael clenched his fists, ignoring the sharp slice of pain as the rocks ground further into his palms and knuckles. He spit the blood that gathered in his mouth, watching as it hit the asphalt with a splatter. The hot sun beat down along his back, soaking through his thin t-shirt. He knew fighting back would only bring him worse pain, but being beat down like this was degrating - He was The Commander for Heaven's sake, an Archangel. These measly beasts were nothing compared to him, he could crush them with a thumb! He needn't even lift a finger!

_No you can't, _a sneering voice reminded him coldly. _You aren't an angel anymore. You kept your wings, but they aren't even functional at this point! _He ground his teeth, forcing himself not to cry out as another kick landed on his ribs. All he had now was magic, that of a young - but thankfully powerful wizard he had come to inhabit. Unfortunately, however, he still had the control of a child, no matter how much he practiced. He would get there eventually, but he was only five. "Freak!" Dudley cried. He wanted to punch that spoiled little brat. Ge ho de manin. His new favourite insult in his home tongue, not sound of the mind. That, and of course his most common phrase: Ol iaid lap en napea, or 'I long for my sword.' He wondered if Dudley would smell like burned bacon if set on fire, or how fast he could push himself if he saw Michael wielding a flaming sword.

Another kick, and he closed his eyes, trying to focus on what he needed most right now, a projection. He would be out of commission for another day or two, but he didn't think Dudley would stop anytime soon, and Michael thought he'd heard a rib crack when he'd hit the ground the second time. "Duddie-kins, come here, dearest!" He mouthed the words, listening as the came from somewhere towards the direction of the house in his aunts shrill voice. Dudley spit, though he missed and the liquid splashed onto the ground next to him. "You're lucky, freak." He hissed, before turning to walk away with nothing more than a second cold look.

He groaned when the baby whale left earshot, allowing his muscles to unclench so he sprawled limply over the courtyard ground, eyes screwed shut. Being a human fucking hurt, but it was better than the alternative, Michael decided as he slowly pressed himself to his feet. It was prudent that he got himself to the library before Dudley returned, as it was the only place the stupid child would never think to look for him. He didn't _need_ to read, of course. He knew the events of the human world intimately, having been the direct cause for a select few, and the indirect one for many more- but he actually found it to be quite entertaining and educational. It was different to learn about things from a human perspective, physics, history, math. It passed the time, at the very least.

He had long since perfected the whole clumsy, friendly kid act, so he cleaned himself up as best he could, tried to smooth his hair a tad, and straightened himself through the pain. On the way to the library, whenever he noticed some unfortunate soul giving him an odd look, he'd smile, wave and then pretend to trip and stumble. It dissuaded their suspicions easily. Humans were easy to fool.

Now, one might wonder why he didn't just go to someone for help, and that was for one, specific reason. Orphanages. He had done some reading, and even some exploration into such places, and they were absolutely abhorrent. He had managed to sneak into one easily, he blended in, and looked around. The conditions were terribly dirty and unsanitary- at least in the one just outside of their town- and the children were even worse. They were cold, cruel, they stepped on each other to get higher, and no one gave a damn about anyone, not even the caretakers. He would much rather live at the Dursley's, where he could at least find places to hide away, and where everyone was dumb enough that it took nothing to trick them, and throw in a little ass-kissing he might get away with a small treat from Petunia. My, his mouth was growing foul with his time on earth. He blamed the whale jr. who had quite a colourful vocabulary for such a young child.

Just before he entered the library, he noticed something odd. A woman was watching him from the corner of her eyes, a frown marring her face. She was older, with neat black hair drawn into a bun, and a distinct pair of spectacles. She glanced up when she saw him looking. He allowed his face to spread into a wide grin and waved, before it happened. It looked like a mere accident, perhaps his feet had caught the pavement, or maybe he had stumbled on an untied shoelace, but Michael fell forward easily. He didn't go the full nine-yards, just fumbled slightly, before giving her a sheepish grin and disappearing into the library.

He felt her stare following his back the entire way.

He found himself in his usual shadowed corner, curled up with his nose buried in a large german tome. He was thankful that he retained his memories from his time as an angel, because it would be quite tedious to re-learn all the known languages, and he had never been good at them - that was Raphael's thing. He was the scholar of the family, or, at least the main branch, lot's of his younger brothers and sisters were just as educated.

He hummed softly at that thought, he loved his family, and he missed the better days, but it was harmful to dwell on them. Instead, he focused on his magic, and directing it inwards so it was easier for it to heal his injuries. It was low, as projecting took much more energy than he would like, especially to someone whose core had not yet stabilized, which would happen at eleven. Michael sighed and flipped the page, beginning the next line, when a voice interrupted him.

"Is that… German?" He heard a woman ask incredulously, and glanced up with a curious eyes, though they held a flicker of annoyance at the interjection in his thought process.

"Yes, I started learning it a few months ago, and I don't know anyone who speaks German, so the next best way to improve is to read books!" He forced a glitter to enter his eyes as he spoke, rambling slightly as any child was bound to. It was the same woman from outside, and he forced himself not to narrow his eyes with suspicion. "I'm good with languages, you see!" She still looked a little startled. Noticing she wasn't going to speak, he filled the silence, having learned long since that people sometimes needed a moment to collect themselves when they caught him doing something a child his age was not often seen doing - like read a German text about physics. "It's about physics- which I think is awesome, I've always liked it, math too!" It was true, he had always found how humans looked at the world fascinating, and while he had never been one for his schooling, he _had _enjoyed math quite a deal as a fledgling.

"I… see. Good luck, I suppose." Although she looked more composed, he must have seriously confused her, as she wandered off after a second, nearly forgetting to check out her own book. Humans were odd creatures, Michael mused as he continued to read.

* * *

**W**hen he next looked up from his book, it was evening, and he was forced to put the text away. He had only made it about a quarter of the way through, but he knew he could likely get another chance at reading it soon. It would be easy to find as there were only two or three German texts in the entire library, as it was most certainly not a large place. He sighed and started back for Privet drive.

The night was cool, and the air was damp, as if it would rain soon, which only served to send him into a faster walk. He would much rather not be cold and wet, thank you very much. It was easy to sneak in, he snuck around to the back and popped open a window Michael knew he had left unlocked earlier while cleaning. Petunia and Vernon were bound to have retreated to their room by now, as it was just beginning to grow late, so he made his way back to the familiar cupboard under the stairs with ease.

He drifted off easily, and fell back into a world where everything was fine, where he wasn't home, and where his family was there to greet him with warm smiles and open arms.


	2. Chapter 2

**July 31, 1986; LETTERS TO FREEDOM**

* * *

**H**is freedom was delivered- ironically- along the silent flight of an owl. He found it almost poetic in a way, the silentest of all birds delivering his dirty little secret, his escape to freedom. Hogwarts, a boarding school of magic. He knew that if he could just make friends, they might be willing to let him spend the summers with them, and by the time he got out of school he would be able to get his own job, and get the hell out of this madhouse.

His mind was racing with possibilities as he clutched the rough parchment to his chest, eyes wide. He could still feel the burn along his back from where the belt had stripped bits of his skin away. He had finally done it- had given in and punched Dudley right in the face. He'd fallen like he was made of glass, hitting the pavement like a sack of bricks, and the adrenaline had felt like fucking Heaven again, like he was back home training fledgelings or wiping the floor with his younger brothers. He clenched his fists, wrinkling the paper. He needed to get out of here, his act was crumbling, he was going mad. He'd stopped smiling and tripping for those damn strangers, let them look - so what if he ended up in an orphanage, at least he survived.

Michael took a breath, trying to calm the inferno that was his temper, dulling it and shoving it right to the back of his mind. He busied himself with smoothing away the wrinkles he'd created. It wouldn't do to mess up any of the details too badly, he might ruin something and get in trouble for missing supplies, especially since he didn't know if Hogwarts had any nearby shops he could visit. He needed to work on his anger, it would get him nowhere in life.

Michael set down the page and reached beneath the mattress of his cot. He'd stored some paper and pencils there a little while ago, and had hoarded it so that he could do his homework, but this would do just as well. He'd also managed to collect about thirty pounds from finding random bills, so perhaps that would be helpful. He would steal if he had to, if it meant going to Hogwarts, but then, his moral compass was skewed slightly, he was an angel, not a human. He abided by different rules, and he no longer had his Father to worry about disappointing.

Angel, a pitiful excuse for one, he mused darkly, running a hand down one of his primaries. His feathers had once been such a bright white that it looked like constant sunlight shining down on quartz, like you were looking at the sun, and the tips of each feather looked to have been dipped in pure, liquidized gold. Now, they looked like a shell of their former glory, the light had turned to a dirty, soot-covered grey, and the shining golden had turned to a watery yellow. So many clumps of feathers had been burned and singed away from his wings that he could no longer fly, and bloodied scratches laced every inch from where the debris had caught him on the way down. He had been burned, had clutched at stars to slow his descent, to stop his fall, despite the fact that he had initiated it, and had screamed so loud he swore it would have dragged Raphael right from the clutches of his meeting, as if he'd know instantly what Michael had done. He had pictured Raphael screaming for him as he fell, reaching out a hand he could never take for fear of dragging him down right alongside Michael. It would have been seen as piety, he knew. He released his wings, trying to push away the disgust he felt for himself, though he knew it wasn't quite so simple.

He let out a bitter choked laugh when he noticed his hands were back on his wing, as if trying to draw comfort, to bring forth the old sensation of electricity he'd feel along his spine whenever someone touched them.

His hands were buried in singed feathers, and he found he couldn't pull away, the down at the bottom of his feathers had gotten caught and tangled with his hands. It would take forever to untangle- his body and mind seemed to work separately as he tore his hand free forcefully, sending a shower of blood over the thin walls. Only biting his lip till he tasted metal kept him from screaming. Michael bent over, clutching gently at the injured appendage. It was his middle wing, so at least the pain wasn't as bad as if it was his smallest wing, but that didn't mean that it didn't feel as if he'd just been cut with a cursed angel blade. Like his damn eyes had been gouged out, or like he'd been sliced in half. Wings were fucking sensitive, it was nearly an overload on the senses just to touch them, let alone tear out flesh and feathers. "Ge ho de manin, Ge ho de manin." He repeated it like a mantra, hoping he might be able to distract himself from the pain.

It didn't work.

He didn't know how long he sat their stifling his moans of pain, but eventually he managed to pick himself back up, still shuddering lightly. Oh, he'd gotten blood on his paper. That would be a bitch to explain away.

He hadn't meant to injure himself that badly, he'd only been expecting a few feathers to come loose, but he had never been known for thinking before he acted. He would have to curb that habit.

_Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,_

_My name is Harry Potter, and I would like to accept your invitation into Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. May I ask where I can get my things? My guardians are willing to bring me, but they don't actually know where to go to get my school supplies. If you would not mind sending a brief explanation on how to get there it would be very much appreciated. Thank you._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter_

_P.S Sorry about the blood - I had a nose bleed while writing and we're out of paper. Uncle Vernon won't be able to head to the store and get more until Wednesday, but I was too excited to wait. I hope you don't mind._

He chose the paper with the least amount of blood on it, and carefully used his magic to unlock the cupboard door. His Uncle was at work and he was sure that his aunt was at the neighbours. Dudley was at Pier's house. He snuck to the window, where- as he assumed- the owl was still waiting for his response. After a moment of fumbling the bird took off with a faint hoot, and he snuck back to his cupboard.

He sighed, leaning back onto the lumpy cot and began to think through his plans. He would steal some money from aunt Petunia and catch a bus to wherever he could get his supplies. Michael would nab something from a stranger, pay for his school supplies, and then would expend most of his magic catching a bus back, as well as making sure she didn't discover the money missing from her purse. He sucked in a breath and began to pull his magic back within the confines of his body, conserving it. It lashed out slightly, fighting him. Magic was meant to be kept within its host, but after being used to letting his grace roam the world around him, he hadn't had the heart to even try.

He sighed, pausing as he realized what he was doing again. He was rubbing at his chest, where he usually would have felt heat like fire blazing just beneath his skin, but that was before he fell. He was an archangel, so unlike a regular angel he would never be completely human. He still had his grace, but it was locked away so tightly he could never even hope to reach it without good reason, which accompanied by the fact that he remembered what it was to be a higher being, it made the loss all the more painful. He sighed and forced himself to stand and leave his cupboard. He'd been putting it off since he was alone, but he _did _have chores to attend to.

* * *

**M**ichael didn't know how he'd managed to hide the letter from his relatives as he slipped back into his cupboard, reassured with the knowledge that he would be safe until they finished breakfast. He tore open the letter with shaking hands, and his eyes easily scanned the contents, even in the dim lighting.

_Dear Harry Potter,_

_You can get all of your things a Diagon Alley, located in London. I'll leave an address at the bottom. Just enter a pub called The Leaky Cauldron, your aunt and uncle will not be able to see it, due to the magical protections it holds. Ask the barkeep to let you into the alley, his name is Tom. I don't know if you will use it, but I have it on good authority that your father used to love riding on the Knight bus, though it only runs during the night and evenings. All you must do is flick your wand along the curb of any street. I just thought that you might enjoy it. I also wish to warn you now, as you are likely not aware. Your identity is well known in the wizarding world, and you are quite famous. I would be careful about your name, and who you give it to. Some may be glad to hear of your identity, and others may not._

_I suggest that you head first to Gringotts, there will be no need to exchange your relatives money, you parents left you a trust fund, which I know has far more than enough. I have included your key in this package. Thank you, I look forward to meeting you at school. Good luck, Mr. Potter._

_Deputy Headmistress,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

Well, that threw a bit of a wrench in his plans, though it was very much appreciated. Father bless him, he could get away with ease now - and the Dursley's would never bother looking for him. He could speak with the bank tellers about property his parents might have kept, and then it would be easy for him to disappear. Michael was free. He let out a laugh and lifted the key out gently, thumbing the cool metal. Freedom, he remembered the feeling, it was exhilarating for that brief moment, before everything had begun to burn and crumble. This appeared to be a good thing, but he would still need to tread carefully.

He would steal the money from aunt Petunia, but would replace it, therefore negating the need to expend too much of his magic. It was difficult to implant a thought in someone's mind and keep it there, especially after remaining invisible for most of a bus ride from London. Hell- he might not even _need _to replace it if his parents had property. He was too young to buy some, but maybe… Hell, why stay? He could leave now- no. That was getting too cocky. He needed to be wary. Michael would leave during the night, once he was sure that everyone was asleep- and there it was, the Knight bus. He could try to call it without a wand by flaring his magic, as he assumed that was how the bus picked up witches and wizards. He might not even need to steal from Petunia, he could expend the money he had, although, it would be a good failsafe. Just in case.

It was settled then.

"Boy!"

* * *

**M**ichael was thankful that the cupboard door did not creak or groan as he slid it open, his bare feet meeting the cold wood flooring. He glanced around despite it being midnight. Wary. Moonlight filtered softly through the windows, casting silver beams along the floor, and giving him just enough light to see by- not that he needed it. He could navigate the entire house in his sleep, having cleaned it top to bottom nearly once a week for nearly six years. What a lovely gift, cleaning the house. Great. He withheld his snort, and crept softly to the door, where his aunts purse hung neatly on the coat rack. His heart pounded loudly as he unzipped it, and reached for her wallet. He pocketed nearly thirty dollars, and left a note on the table before he disappeared out an unlocked window, the door being too loud. If he return before the night ended he would remove the letter. It basically just said that he was never coming back, and that he hoped they all burned in hell, which- considering he was an angel- he knew on good authority that they would. Harming a child was one of the many ways to land yourself a spot in the pit. His face twisted into a sharp smirk- then he froze. It was night time - what if all the shops were closed…? He hadn't even thought about that! What if he had to find time to leave during_thedayand_\- he forced himself to take a deep breath. He would cross that bridge when he came to it, he may not even have to, it was all resting on his parents property. Unless the bank was closed. Another breath. Then he would find time during the day. He was fine, this was alright. Everything would turn out just fine.

Michael sighed softly. He crossed the immaculate lawn, reveling in the soft night air, and he couldn't help but glance longingly up at the millions of stars glittering overhead. He remembered what it was to be among them, to weave between planets and suns and debris, but he also remembered what it was to be forcefully dragged through them, to burn and scorch his wings, to rip them beyond repair. Falling… wasn't just falling, it was being dragged. The jumping from the gap had been little more than a metaphor, he could have jumped through it anytime, but had he not intended to fall he would have dropped into a simple flight. He didn't need to jump to fall, he could have torn out his grace and fell through as the floors of Heaven refused to keep him aloft any longer. Falling was a chain, a burning chain that tightened around his ankle and yanked him kicking and screaming towards earth. The same chain that still kept him there now. He glanced down, he couldn't see it, but he could tell it was still there, could feel the cold ice pressed against his skin. That burning heat had changed to unbearable cold as it shackled him to the planet he held no true love for. There was a burn mark, too. He could feel it, could see it, could touch it. Blackened flesh around his leg, a painful scorch, but he didn't feel it unless he focused.

Michael shook his head, and forced himself to the curb, where he reached out with his magic, and flared it.

A loud crack sounded, a bang, and then before him stool a purple, double decker bus. He blinked, faintly startled by the suddenness of it's appearance. This didn't bode well, if it had gotten here so fast, then that meant riding it was bound to be… chaotic. He nabbed a bed near the back after letting them know his destination, trying to avoid as many people as possible. He didn't want people to remember him - Michael wanted to be as unassuming as possible, and that would mean avoiding the name he had rarely used his entire life, Harry. No problems there. His relatives called him boy or freak, and he mentally called himself Michael - he wondered if he would even respond to his legal name anymore. He supposed he would just have to find out.

* * *

**H**e was right, the Knight Bus was absurdly fast and dangerous and- he loved it. It reminded him a little bit of flying, the swift maneuvers and blinding speed- he would definitely be riding again. His was the third stop, and he found himself standing before a dingy pub. It looked quite rickety, something many would barely give a passing glance, but Michael could easily sense the palpable magic surrounding the entire building, it was almost intoxicating.

He hummed and made his way inside.

It was quiet, there were only a few people scattered around tables, drinking various substances and using different kinds of occasional magic. The barkeep- Tom- glanced up at his entrance from where he was cleaning a glass with a rag. Michael took a deep breath and smoothed the hair down over his scar before he approached. "Evening, sir." He smiled brightly, allowing an excited note to slip into his eyes, "would you show me how to get into Diagon alley, please?"

"At this time of night?" He asked curiously, but nodded nonetheless, "alright, follow me." He dropped his hands from the mug, and Michael watched curiously as it began to clean itself. They stepped into a grimy alley behind the bar, and he watched attentively as Tom tapped out a specified pattern on the bricks. With the sound of stone grinding on stone, a hole opened in the wall, and it finally grew larger and larger until he was staring out at an empty street with wide eyes.

He stepped through, and the wall closed behind him. Most of the lights were off, shops closed, but he could see a towering white building hovering above the other little shops, and very faintly there was visible light emitting from it. He figured that it made sense for that to be Gringotts, as it was easy to spot for those who had no previous knowledge of magic, and the Deputy Headmistress had something about exchanging money, which meant they would _have _to visit the bank. He started towards it at a swift jog, figuring it better if he didn't linger in an unfamiliar environment for too long. There were too many unknowns, and he did not know the area if something went wrong. He had magic, but he was at a distinct disadvantage, being eleven, and not having any wand or training. He could fight like hell, but he didn't have his usual strength and speed, he was quite weak in this form. He'd need to fix that.

Michael entered the snow coloured building warily, glancing around. He was lucky he was an angel, or he might have been rude and stared at the tellers, who were clearly goblins. He'd seen them before, had interacted with a few, so he found no trouble as he approached one of them.

The goblin continued with his business for a moment before finally glancing up. "Yes?" He asked in an annoyed drawl, voice clearly wrought with annoyance.

"Pardon me, sir, but I would like to speak with the head of my families vaults. If it isn't too much trouble, of course." He looked a little surprised at such a polite tone, but Michael had a feeling he would never have noticed had he not watched their creation firsthand.

"And your name…?" He asked boredly, haughtily.

"Potter, Harry Potter, sir."

"One moment, Mr. Potter." He disappeared into the back, returning a moment later with another goblin.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter. I am Griphook, Head of the Potter vaults. If you would follow me to my office so we may discuss business." He gave a smile filled with teeth like razors, though Michael had a feeling it was more to intimidate him than anything. Clearly the nice kid act wouldn't work on them, they treated kindness as weakness. He would need to devise a new persona then, and fast. Powerful but respectful should do the trick - he wondered how they'd take it if he fell back into his commander front. Best he could do was try and find out. He steeled himself and straightened his back, refusing to fall for their intimidation tactic. His eyes hardened, and the goblins swore for an instant that they'd flashed white.

"I suppose I could spare the time," he agreed and followed Griphook. His office was nice, with plush chairs and a few paintings, candles lit the room, bathing it in a soft, golden glow. He sat and steepled his fingertips, resting his mouth against the tips of his pointer fingers as he rested his elbows on the desk, eyes as cold as he could keep them. He was glad he knew how to intimidate others, as it would come in handy with many - he also knew how to make sure his presence took up a whole room. His wings spread wide, they had to curl so they didn't brush the walls or bookshelves, but it helped make him seem more imposing- even if Griphook couldn't see his wings like his siblings had been able to, he could sense something…

He didn't say anything about Michael's rude form, just cast it a pointed glance. "I want to know about any bit of untraceable property my parents owned, and I would like a full report about all of the vaults I have current access to, and will have in the future. I want this all done under the table, I want all of my activity within your bank to be kept completely secret." He didn't want anybody to be able to find him, especially the authorities. Griphook cast him an appraising glance.

"Of course, Gringotts prides itself in its customers complete privacy. I can grab you the list for your items, however, to properly understand the extent of vaults and properties you have access to, I would recommend an inheritance test, as some things can be passed on through blood or magic." He spoke, watching for a reaction.

"Then do so," he nodded and moved so he leaned back in his chair, eyes still trained on every move the goblin made.

He retrieved a paper from behind him, and then a ceremonial knife, decorated with strains of gold veining the blade, and rubies scattered neatly over the damascus hilt. "I want you to cut yourself and place the blood onto this parchment." He likely expected Michael to ask whether it would heal, or if it would hurt, but instead he asked.

"Does the amount of blood matter?" He raised an eyebrow in challenge, watching the goblins eyes narrow.

"No," he drawled, a faint undertone of a hiss in his voice "but more is better,"

Michael nodded and drew the blade across his palm, squeezing a large flow of blood onto the page without so much as a wince. It healed after a moment. Slowly, words began to appear on the page in spidery thin ink.

* * *

_Name_

_Harry James Potter_

Age

_11_

Father

_James Fleamont Potter_

Mother

_Lily Potter (Née Evans)_

Vaults

_Potter Vault- Access blocked until customer is of age_

_Harry's Trust Fund- Accessible_

_Black Vault- Access blocked until head of vault declares customer heir_

_Peverell Vault (Ignotius)- Access blocked until customer is of age_

Properties

_Godric's Hollow, Potter home- destroyed_

_Scotland, Potter Manor- fidelius, unplotted_

_France, Potter Vacation home- unplotted_

_Diagon Alley, Potter Apartment- none_

_Britain, 12 Grimmauld- Access blocked_

_Romania, Peverell Manor- Fidelius, unplotted_

* * *

He frowned when he finished scanning the page. "Griphook, may I inquire as to what exactly the fidelus is?" Unplottable was easy enough, but he'd never heard of the other notion.

"The fidelius charm is a form of protection, it seals a secret inside that of a single living soul, and it is impossible to find without the secret-keeper divulging directly where it is hidden. Thankfully, the families Head Goblin is always privy to such information, and as magical creatures we are able to bypass what wizards cannot, therefore I- and other goblins- can pass along the knowledge to the younger generations." Michael hummed when Griphook finished his explanation.

"Would there be a way to gain me to and from the Potter Manor and Diagon Alley?"

"Yes, the floo will have been connected. Have you ever used one before?" Griphook sneered slightly at the question.

Michael made a noise low in the back of his throat, "I have not. How is it to be used?"

"You take floo powder- which is usually kept on the mantle- and step into the fire. You will then state your destination. If you are welcome through the wards you will be allowed in. If not… well…" He gave a malicious grin.

"I see. I wish to make a withdrawal from my vault, and then I would like to be pointed to the nearest floo." He ordered, rising from his seat with the goblin right behind him.

"Very well, Mr. Potter."


End file.
